


drowning your sorrows, and other cliches that never actually work (by fall out boy)

by procrastinatingbookworm



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 10:33:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11644734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: It's just one of those days.





	drowning your sorrows, and other cliches that never actually work (by fall out boy)

Aziraphale can think of no reason why it should be a bad day. The world hasn't ended, not when it was 'supposed' to, and not for a year afterward. Nor have the forces of Heaven and Hell come to force him or Crowley to pay for their meddling. The sun is even shining, and there's the faint sound of birdsong underneath the sound of traffic. All is well.

"All is well." The angel says aloud, his fingers wrapped around a mug of cocoa that he's dedicating a small part of his focus to keeping warm, trying to convince himself. The words sound hollow. He repeats them, nonetheless, over and over, until he loses focus and his cocoa goes cold. This latest (or, if he's honest, first) inconvenience drags a miserable sigh from his throat, and he just barely manages not to throw the cup across the room. He closes his eyes and sulks.

There's a series of clatters, a muffled curse, a scrabbling, and the sound of the door unlocking. The cup changes weight in Aziraphale's hand, from cocoa to something lighter and most likely more alcoholic.

"Morning, angel." Crowley says, and there's a fabric-y sound that's most likely the demon throwing his coat onto one of the chairs. "Is it still morning?"

Aziraphale blinks his eyes open and makes a sound that tries to be an affirmative hum and comes out more of a grumbling whine, and Crowley's sunglasses join his jacket on the chair. He looks at the angel with the yellow, slit-pupiled eyes of a snake, and there's something fond there, something almost pitying, and the demon sits down and takes the cup from Aziraphale's hands, changing it to a bottle and taking a slow sip.

"One of those days?" He says eventually, after they've passed the bottle back and forth for a while, resting his arm along the back of the sofa, his sleeve brushing Aziraphale's curls. There's no response for a moment, just the quiet sound of glass and wine and skin, and the shuffle of fabric as Aziraphale leans into Crowley's side. There's an almost awkward silence, and the angel nods.

They breathe for a few moments, because the moment is so stupidly human that it just feels right to breathe and blink. They settle deeper into the couch, finish the bottle. Crowley snaps his fingers and it refills, and Aziraphale looks at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Did something happen?"

Crowley jumped. "Uh? No."

A long pause, long enough for the second bottle to end up empty.

Aziraphale heaves a sigh. "Just one of those days, then?"

Another long silence. Crowley takes the bottle back and drinks deeply, with the weariness of someone who's seen far too much of everything, and spent far too long with the realization that the awfulness of it is all that can be expected as normality.

"Just one of those days."

 

They sit, and breathe, and drink, and find something right in the midst of the invisible wrong.


End file.
